


You're the sweet to my mean

by jamlockk



Series: Cabinlock [2]
Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Douglas Whump, Heartbreak, Light Angst, M/M, Pining, Sorry Douglas I love you really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-06-03 15:46:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6616318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamlockk/pseuds/jamlockk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It was always the eyes, Douglas mused to himself. You could tell happiness just by looking at someone’s eyes. Arthur’s always seemed happy, whereas Douglas was sure that if one really looked, the depths of his ongoing melancholy would be bared for all to see."</p><p>Douglas remembers the first man he loved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're the sweet to my mean

The laughter startled him and he whipped his head up from where he’d been staring at the bottom of his now-empty glass. It was a couple sharing an enormous, ridiculously cheerful cocktail. The soft, happy smiles and unabashed adoration in the two men’s eyes tugged at Douglas’ chest. He went back to staring at his glass, giving the barman a grateful nod as he refilled it.

It was always the eyes, Douglas mused to himself. You could tell happiness just by looking at someone’s eyes. Arthur’s always seemed happy, whereas Douglas was sure that if one really looked, the depths of his ongoing melancholy would be bared for all to see. 

He hadn’t thought about it in a long time, but catching sight of the couple again his mind couldn’t help but dwell on it. The taller man had the same aristocratic air to him, some vague semblance to a face Douglas had once loved. His husband; shorter, blond, and very attractive, was favouring the dark-haired man with a dopey look that Douglas was positive had graced his own face at some point in his youth. He turned on his chair and watched them for a moment, enthralled by how lost in each other they seemed. Oblivious to the outside world, and anything beyond the love they so obviously shared. 

Snorting at his soppiness, Douglas turned around again and looked back at his glass. The amber liquid reflected back a pair of wistful, soft brown eyes. His own eyes. Always the eyes, he grumbled to himself. 

That was what had got him into such bother before, all those years ago. Thinking back on it now, Douglas wondered idly if he was doomed to love ginger-haired men who-

He mentally slammed the lid shut on that thought. The fresh slice of pain in his heart joined the old one, and together they painted a short-lived agony across his chest, before fading to a muted, all-too familiar ache. Beige, Douglas thought. If heartbreak has a colour, it’s beige. Not bright red, all despair and pain and loss. It might start that way but if you live with it long enough, it turns to beige. Drab, dull, ubiquitous. 

The giggles from the couple he now had his back to trilled in his ears and Douglas gave a heavy sigh. Here he was, approaching 60, drowning his morose thoughts in sweet apple juice in the surprisingly reasonable hotel bar Carolyn had booked for this layover. Douglas slouched into himself, feeling like a dark cloud on a sunny day. The Garibaldi to everyone else’s Excelsior. 

He smirked to himself even as his heart winced again, stood up and drained his glass. Flicking a couple of notes onto the bar he turned to leave. The couple were standing too, making their way to the door. As they passed, Douglas met the dark-haired man’s eyes. A flash of heat went through him at their expression. He’d seen that before. Not from blue-green, but from a misty grey. 

He opened his mouth, and closed it again. What would he have said? Excuse me sir, your eyes remind me of a man I loved a long time ago? Christ. 

Douglas ran his hand distractedly through his hair as he got into the lift. It was always the eyes, he thought again. Once he’d seen those eyes, he knew there was no way he wouldn’t fall helplessly in love. 

He’d always been drawn more to the allure of men than women back then. He’d discovered he could love both, but for some reason only men could truly shatter his fragile but ever-hopeful heart. Unbidden, a memory of those eyes, that face, that touch, floated into his thoughts. 

He was special. Not in an ordinary way, either. Once Douglas had seen those eyes; cool, assessing, but with a touch of appraisal, he contrived a way to speak to this intriguing and gorgeous young man. From there, it’d been easy for him to lose his heart. 

Those wonderful eyes, sparkling and sated, the mirthful chuckle under Mike’s breath, the feel of his sweaty skin still pressed close; Douglas sighed and closed his eyes against the assault from his memory. The two of them entwined in a tiny bed, which had no right housing a bulky 23 year old Douglas and his tall, lean 19 year-old lover. 

Of course it didn’t last. The change in those beautiful eyes had been the worst thing. Warm affection replaced by aloof distance. Douglas thought now maybe he understood, but it didn’t surprise him that it still caused a pang of loss deep down. He’d gotten used to that, at least. He could only hope the sharp sting of losing his Captain would eventually turn beige and dull too, 

Idly wondering what Mike might be doing now, Douglas took out his key and went into his room. He drew the curtains, undressed, lay down and finally, drifted asleep thinking of soft blue-grey eyes and ginger hair. 

\---

Douglas was somewhere above the North Atlantic, ignoring Herc and Arthur’s lively dessert debate, when Mycroft Holmes casually opened a new tab in his browser. He didn’t, for once, especially feel a need to analyse this particular urge as he scrolled carelessly down the page. The OJS Air website was certainly better than the old MJN one. 

Mycroft clicked with entirely unnecessary nonchalance on the “About Us” tab, and scrolled to the photos of the crew. His eyes drank in brown ones much like his own; older, more tired, but still beautiful. 

If there was something a little like regret in Mycroft’s expression as he closed the tab, it was pure coincidence.


End file.
